


En Train des Pages

by walrucifer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, France (Country), M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:30:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walrucifer/pseuds/walrucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France, 1937: Samuel de Parre is a young, workless and single freelance author who has lost everyone he loves and has no means to support himself. All this changes when he meets Gabriel Asilieri, an Italian entepreneur, and Lucis Peregnarde, a charming and handsome waiter and bartender with some side-along "jobs" to pay his rent. When Samuel finds his brother has died, he's going to need consolation and a helping hand more than ever, and Gabriel and Lucis seem only too keen to be the one he chooses.<br/>It's only a matter of choosing, and being sure he chose right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Train des Pages

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if there are any mistakes in the French.  
> Also, their names needed to be changed, because obviously you can't run around like "yo hey I'm Lucifer" in the 1930's and not be arrested.

For two minutes, Samuel du Parre sat there, silent, watching the people come and go from his café window. They were always in pairs, or in groups, never alone. But of course, he thought; this was Paris. Lonesomeness was as bad as a sin here.  
“ _Monsieur, vous avez ordé le vin blanc_?” a waiter asked from beside him. He looked up, surprised, and nodded. The man gracefully produced a bottle- Jules Mumm- and poured some into the elegant flute before him. When he accepted the glass, the waiter smiled warmly and dipped his chin in an encouraging, birdlike motion. He sipped.  
The wine was not wine. The barest hint of warm, light bubbles floated through the sweet, fruity liquid, sliding through Samuel’s throat effortlessly and refreshingly. He set his flute down, surprised, and gazed up at the waiter. A flush crept into his cheeks; the man was quite handsome, tall and well-built, blonde, with the most brilliant light-blue eyes Samuel had ever seen. His smile stretched across his entire face like the mischievous grin of a schoolboy, showing immaculate white teeth.   
“ _C’est bon, le vin_?” the waiter asked warmly, politely, and Samuel blinked and nodded.  
“ _Oui, c’est magnifique._ ” he replied. The waiter grinned again and set the bottle down. He left. Samuel’s thoughts returned to his wine and people-watching.

_Silently, blissfully, Samuel stretched out on his bed, long limbs fluid with sleep and the pleasant buzz of the champagne, and he nestled into the sheets. Heavy warmth settled over him, blanketing his body like a comforter, and he slipped away into unconsciousness._  
When he awoke, the sun had risen. Golden light filtered into the room, illuminating every dust-mote on the wood and dipping everything into buttery radiance. It took Samuel a moment to realise that he had slept through an entire day. Horrified, he jerked up and glanced up at the clock. 11:23 in the morning. With a groan, he stretched himself awake, undressed, and went to shower.  
Hot water poured down his shoulder soothingly, easing the knotted tension in his muscles and nearly lulling him to sleep again. Steam settled on his body, chilling it, only to be followed by more heat, an incessant shift of hot and cold. Samuel let himself doze, eyelids lowered, breathing deeply and not bothering to hurry. He had nowhere to go today; he may as well take his time and enjoy the day. Shutting the water off, he stepped out, shuddering as cold air hit his wet skin, and quickly grabbed a warm, downy towel, wrapping it around his entire form, wondering how it fit. This was no towel; it was likely meant as a rug, but had never been used as such. Whatever the case, it settled around his shoulders and waist perfectly and took the chill away; it served its purpose.  
Still half-asleep, Samuel sauntered into his room to dress. He opened his commode to select a suitable outfit for whatever he might do; something comfortable, but suitable for potential company. Simple black pants and a pale, button-down shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he took the towel off and examined himself in the mirror. Years of running and working as a postman had left him lithe and laced with slender muscle, and his limbs were long and powerful. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but the man he saw was easily accredited as beautiful. Satisfied, he stepped away from his reflection and pulled the clothes on, enjoying the smooth, silky texture of the shirt against his bare chest and arms.   
Having finished, he took a comb from the shelf beside him and ran it through his hair, untangling any knots in the long brown strands. He sat on the bed, wondering what to do next, bored.  
The doorbell rang.  
He stood and went downstairs.  
When he opened the door, Samuel almost had a heart attack. The man from the café was standing on his doorstep, head tilted, and looking very awkward and strangely small. Hands trembling, Samuel opened the door and asked him what he wanted. To his surprise, the waiter said nothing; he simply stepped inside and shut the door behind him. A sense of deliberate panic settled in Samuel’s stomach, and he slumped into his sofa with a look of startled fear at the waiter. Said man sighed softly, sat beside him, and gazed at him for a long time.  
“You are Monsieur de Parre?” he asked in a strangled voice, hands trembling, eyes cloudy with unshed tears, and growled deep in his throat. Samuel nodded, worried, and only then did it register to him that the man had been speaking English.   
“You spoke French in the café.” He murmured, and the waiter nodded.  
“So did you, monsieur.” He replied, eyes testy, and returned his gaze to his hands, which were folded in his lap.  
“Why are you here?” Samuel wondered. “I never have visitors.”  
And it was true enough; his mother had died of influenza when he was only five, and his father had run away when he was twelve. Ever since their passing, he had never had cause for guests.  
“Forgive me if I am intruding, monsieur, but…. I have grave news,” the waiter sighed, eyes fixed on the corner of Samuel’s coffee table almost with a suspicious obviousness.  
“No, you aren’t.” Samuel murmured, and leaned forward. “What is it? Why are you here, monsieur…”  
“Peregnarde. Lucis Peregnarde. I… monsieur, someone has just informed me of the death of your brother. He is Daniele du Parre, no?”  
Samuel reeled, feeling as though something cold and heavy had punched into his gut.  
“It can’t be, Daniele was always so _lively_ and…. No! He can’t be dead!” he breathed, horrified, and Peregnarde bowed his head solemnly. His eyes were hazy, and his hands trembled. Samuel let out a strangled whine and stood up suddenly, knocking the coffee table and its contents over, and not caring. Forgetting about his visitor completely, he ran upstairs, slumped onto his bed, face-forward, and tried to gather his wits.   
Peregnarde did not seem the type to play a joke so cruel as this. He struck Samuel as a civilized man, one who was far more subtle and deliberate than this. The message was genuine, of that he was certain.   
Tears leaked down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. His brother was gone, dead, just like that, and it struck him with the force a hammer blow: he had no one left. No one. The only person he had ever spoken to besides a brief _hello_ was his workgiver, Gabriel Asilieri, and while Gabriel possessed the typical Italian charm and warmth, Samuel doubted if he would take him in as his own. Aside from that, who did he know?   
The only option that presented itself to him was Peregnarde himself, and Samuel did not enjoy that idea. After being a harbinger of familiar death to him, Peregnarde may not even want to be seen by him any more.  
A gentle knock at his door startled Samuel out of his thoughts. He glanced up, sniffed, and murmured a weak “Come in”. Slowly, carefully, Peregnarde entered and sat beside him on the bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and slow, and his hands no longer trembled.  
“I am truly sorry for your loss, Samuel.” He said in a gentle voice. Samuel jerked up.   
“How do you know my name?” he asked, baffled, and the other man laughed warmly, shakily. Despite the situation, Samuel found himself immensely attracted to his laugh and flushed slightly. Peregnarde pointed at a card on his commode, labelled _for Samuel_ , one he had gotten from Daniele last year. A stab of grief hit home, and he curled up miserably.  
Peregnarde set a soft hand on his shoulder, and instead of jerking away, Samuel accepted the comfort. He was too exhausted to be impolite, and Peregnarde seemed to understand that he needed isolation. He stood, glanced down at Samuel, and turned to leave. Samuel raised his hand and let it flop back down in a weak imitation of a wave. Peregnarde laughed again, and stopped.  
“Do you have a pen I could use? If you don’t mind, I would like to give you my address and number. I’m a therapist as well, you know.”  
This came as a surprise to Samuel. “No, I don’t know.” He replied, and the other man chuckled deeply. “There are pens in the drawer.”  
The rasp of wood on wood punctuated the silence, and a pen clicked. Then Peregnarde scrawled something and handed the paper to Samuel, who took it and let it drop to the floor without so much as glancing at it. Still, he had the good grace to thank him with a quaint “ _Merci, monsieur Peregnarde_.”  
“Please, call me Lucis. If I’m going to be working with you, I would prefer if we were on first-name terms. Of course, I won’t call you Samuel if you do not wish me to.”  
“M-hm. Thank you, _Lucis_.”  
Peregnarde smiled and opened the door. “I’ll be leaving you, then. Call me if you need anything.”  
Samuel nodded and waved him away. The door slid open and shut with a soft thud, and minutes later, the soft whirr of a car leaving his house. Then silence.  
Samuel fell asleep, this time for the night.  
He didn’t wake until much later.


End file.
